Verse > Anthologies > Hamilton Fish Armstrong, ed. > The Book of New York Verse
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Hamilton Fish Armstrong, ed.  The Book of New York Verse.  1917.
 
Whistles at Night
By John Hall Wheelock
 
AT night in the city when the far-off whistles blow
  I think of you, far-off in the dark and the night,
  And the old days come back of your young delight
So long ago.
 
I remember the evening we parted forever at last,        5
  The long, dim aisles of trees in the lamp-lit Park,
  The windy houses that huddled, chilly and dark,
On the twilit Vast.
 
And even the sound of the newsboy’s voice in the street
  And a rattling car, in that moment of exquisite pain,        10
  Burned themselves like odors into my brain,
Sharp and yet sweet.
 
Because we knew it must be forever and aye,
  We would laugh, we said, to make it a little thing;
  I remember your voice, how your laugh had a curious ring        15
Not wholly gay.
 
The old dear way of moving your shoulders had—
  And when you had turned away for a little while,
  How you turned back with a last, brave ghost of a smile,—
But not glad, not glad!        20
 
At night in the city when the far-off whistles blow
  I think of you, far-off in the dark and the night;
  The arc-lamp out in the street flares dizzy and white,
And the dawn comes slow.
 
 
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